machine come swooping over the conifers at the edge of the property. It did a slow, lazy circle of the gardens, disappeared behind the house, then reappeared and touched down in the middle of the lawn.
The rotor draught whipped Nightingale’s hair and he flicked the remains of his cigarette away. A door opened and Wainwright climbed out. He bent double under the still-turning rotors as he jogged away from the helicopter, then straightened up and waved at Nightingale. In his left hand he was holding a half-smoked foot-long Cuban cigar. ‘Nice spread you’ve got here, Jack,’ said the American in his Midwestern drawl. He was a big man, a shade over six feet tall, well-muscled and with skin the colour of strong Colombian coffee. He had on a blue New York Yankees baseball cap and a leather baseball jacket; around his neck was a large letter J that Nightingale figured was almost certainly solid gold. He was wearing cowboy boots that looked as if they were made from rattlesnake skin and there was a fanged head on the toe of each boot.
They shook hands, Wainwright’s hand dwarfing Nightingale’s. ‘Do you live here now?’ asked Wainwright as they walked up the steps to the front door.
‘I’m still in my London pied-a-terre,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m not sure what to do with this place. It’s too big for me.’
‘You get used to big places,’ said Wainwright. He held up his cigar as Nightingale opened the door. ‘Are you okay if I take this inside?’
‘Sure, I’m a smoker, remember.’
‘I know, but these days you always have to ask.’ Wainwright followed Nightingale into the hall and looked at the burned staircase and muddy marble floor. ‘Hey, man, what the hell happened?’
‘Had a fire.’
‘Not smoking in bed?’
Nightingale chuckled. ‘No, definitely not that. It was deliberate, as it happens. An arsonist set fire to the place while I was upstairs. I only just managed to get out.’
‘Winning friends and influencing people?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Yeah, the last time we spoke you wanted to talk to Lucifuge Rofocale.’ He waved his hand at the scorched stairway. ‘Is this anything to do with him?’
‘Funnily enough, no. This was Proserpine’s doing. One of her minions.’
Wainwright laughed. ‘What have you done to get her so riled up? Of all the devils on Lucifer’s payroll she’s definitely the one that you don’t want to mess with.’
‘We did a deal,’ said Nightingale. ‘I did the pentagram thing and I summoned her. I wanted some information and she wanted to.?.?.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure what she wanted, truth be told,’ he said. ‘It was like she was playing a game with me. Toying with me.’
‘Just because they’re demons from Hell doesn’t mean they don’t have a sense of humour,’ said the American. He flicked ash onto the floor and then grinned apologetically. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just figured that with all the crap on the floor a bit of ash wouldn’t matter.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Nightingale. ‘Hopefully you’ll be paying for the clean-up, anyway.’
Wainwright nodded. ‘If you’ve got the books I want, money’s not going to be a problem,’ he said. ‘So tell me about the deal you did with Proserpine.’
‘I needed help finding my sister,’ said Nightingale. ‘So Proserpine said that she’d answer any questions I had. But the deal was that for every question she answered, she’d send one of her minions to kill me.’
‘Sweet,’ said Wainwright.
‘Yeah,’ said Nightingale. ‘Two down, one still to go.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said Wainwright. ‘Just remember that any time you do a deal with the dark side, the cards are almost always stacked against you.’
‘Yeah, I’m starting to learn that.’
‘Did you ever try to summon Lucifuge Rofocale?’
‘You told me not to, remember?’
‘I had the feeling that you weren’t listening to me. So despite what I said, you summoned him, right?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘And how did it go?’
‘The jury’s still out on that,’ said Nightingale.
‘Jack, I’m serious about this. Be very, very careful with him. With all of them, but especially with Lucifuge Rofocale. They’ve been around for a long, long time and generally in the end they get what they want.’
‘It’s all done,’ said Nightingale. ‘All done and dusted.’
‘You think that, but he might have other ideas.’ He blew smoke up at the massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling and then grinned at Nightingale. ‘Still, you’re here, so that’s got to count for something, right?’
‘Like I said, the jury’s still out.’ He walked over to the secret panel that led down to the basement and pulled it open. ‘Down here,’ he said, switching on the lights.
‘You’re kidding me,’ said Wainwright. ‘A secret door? Your old man had a sense of the absurd, didn’t he?’
‘I think he just didn’t want anyone to know that the books were down there.’
Wainwright followed him down the stairs. He stood at the bottom and whistled softly as he saw how many books there were. ‘These are all on black magic?’
‘Black magic, white magic, witchcraft, devil-worship, spells, theology, philosophy, mythology.’
‘I knew your father was a collector, but I didn’t realise it was on this scale,’ said Wainwright. ‘I’m tempted to make you an offer for the lot.’
‘Have a look around and let me know what you think. They’re no use to me.’
Wainwright walked over to one of the bookshelves and drew on his cigar as he studied the titles.
‘I’ve got another question for you,’ said Nightingale. He dropped down onto a sofa and swung his feet up onto the coffee table.
‘Ask away,’ said Wainwright, taking down a leather-bound book and flicking through it.
‘Talking to the dead,’ said Nightingale. ‘How easy is that?’
Wainwright chuckled. ‘Talking to the dead is easy; the trick is to get them to talk back.’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Nightingale, taking his cigarettes and lighter out of his coat pocket.
‘You want to initiate a conversation with someone who’s dead,’ said the American. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. Anyone in particular?’
‘Yeah.’
Wainwright put the book back and took down another. ‘Have you tried the old faithful? The Ouija board?’
‘Yeah, but it didn’t work out too well.’
‘Someone always pushes,’ said Wainwright. ‘And even if they don’t, you’ve no guarantee who’s going to come through. There’re a lot of mischievous spirits about just waiting for the opportunity of slipping into our world.’ He flicked through the book he was holding. ‘You could try a medium,’ said Wainwright. ‘An intermediary. Someone who knows what they’re doing.’
‘I went to see one last night but it was a bit of a disappointment,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do you know of any decent ones?’ He lit a cigarette.
‘Not really my field,’ said Wainwright.
‘No problem,’ said Nightingale.
Wainwright turned around and gestured with the book that he was holding. ‘I’ll definitely buy this one.’
‘Take it with you, we can settle up later,’ said Nightingale.
‘You’re very trusting,’ said the American, putting the book down on the coffee table by Nightingale’s feet.
‘You’ve seen me all right in the past,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I get the feeling that money isn’t a problem for you.’
Wainwright looked down the rows of display cases. ‘He was one hell of a collector, old man Gosling,’ he said.
‘Pretty much everything he had went on what you see down here.’
‘And the house, of course? This must have cost a few million.’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘It’s mortgaged to the hilt. That’s why I’m selling the books.’
